


Experiments

by boxoftheskyking



Series: Indelible Universe [12]
Category: Two Two One Bravo Baker Series
Genre: M/M, Poetry and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henn and McMath experiment with a new kind of kink, because you learn something new every day. Dishes don't get done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiments

“He’s not perfect, but, you know. He’ll do,” Tom nods to himself and tucks the dry mixing bowl into a cupboard.  He’s been analyzing each of the men in his section since dinner, to the point that Billy feels if he met one on the street he’d be able to give him accurate pointers on his shooting. Billy laughs as he scrubs a glass, nudging Tom’s hip.

“By ‘not perfect’ you mean ‘not Tom Henn,’ don’t you?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “No. I just mean he’s young. He’ll get there. First tour, you know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

Tom laughs to himself. “God, you should see the way he looks at Hinde. Fuck, it’s the way  _I_  used to look at Hinde. Poor bastard.”

“Can’t blame him. I mean, the pair of you.”

“What?”

Billy hands him the glass and re-soaps his rag.

“The pair of you, you and Hinde. I pity the whole fucking platoon.”

Tom blushes. “Shut up.”

“Just imagine how much sleep those poor boys lose over you,” Billy sighs nostalgically. 

Tom is quiet for a moment. When Billy glances over he sees Tom looking down at his hands, lips a tight line.

“I never—,” Tom starts quietly when he feels Billy’s gaze. “You know I never—”

“Christ, of course. Jesus, I didn’t mean any—”

Tom turns to him, silencing him with a look. “I know what Barr thinks, and Blackwood didn’t expect much, either. But I swear to—”

“Hey. Hey,” Billy turns to him and takes his shoulders. “You don’t have to. You really don’t. I’m sorry, it was a stupid joke.”

“You never asked.” Tom grabs at one of the hands on his shoulder, fingers slipping on the soapy wetness. He looks anywhere but into Billy’s face. “You never even asked. Not once.”

“Didn’t need to. Hey. Hey, look at me.” Billy tilts his chin and meets his eyes. “I never doubted. Not for a second.”

“Maybe you should have,” Tom whispers, his expression tightening. “You should have asked.”

Billy is quiet, gently stroking his thumb along the side of Tom’s jaw.  

“I doubted,” Tom admits softly. “I thought I’d fuck it up, for all the big talk, I’d just—”

“Tom.” Billy moves his thumb to Tom’s lips. “You didn’t.”

“But I thought I’d—” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Billy moves his hands down to Tom’s waist pulling him in. “It wasn’t ever going to be easy, was it?”

Tom leans into him, letting out a long breath. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just— You never asked. It’s been a week and you haven’t asked and it just felt like this massive—”

“I told you; I didn’t need to.” Tom turns his face into Billy’s shoulder and breathes in deeply. “Do we have to talk about faith again?”

Tom pulls back with a grin. “God, no. Never again. No philosophy without alcohol.”

Billy smiles softly and leans in for a brief, firm kiss before turning back to the sink. He scrubs a fresh plate and passes it over to Tom with a mischievous look.

“You weren’t ever worried about me straying, were you?”

Tom grins at him and dries. “No offense, but you’re not exactly surrounded by …”

“Commandos?”

“Yeah.”

Billy chuckles. “Never into scholars, were you, Tom?”

“Not before now.” Tom hooks an arm around Billy’s waist and bites lightly at his shoulder, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. Billy remains stoic, rolling his sleeves further up on his arms and going to work on a blackened pan.

“You’re missing out, you know. I took a poetry class this semester.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Billy shrugs and scrubs.

“What?” Tom asks after a moment of silence.

“Nothing. You don’t like poetry.”

“You do?”

He tips his chin noncommittally.

“You’re telling me some first year literature student won your heart with  _poetry_?”

Billy laughs. “Yeah, that’s likely.” 

Tom squeezes him tighter and he sighs.

“I liked it. The poetry, I mean. And the other stuff. I mean, I read … a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Lots of free time, you know?”

Tom kisses the side of his neck.

“Anything good?”

“Lots. Stuff for class, but there wasn’t that much. And it’s not like I was busy. You know. Read  _Ulysses_.”

Tom pulls back and stares at him.

“I didn’t know people actually did that.”

Billy flicks soapy water onto Tom’s stomach.

“I have no idea what most of it was about,” he admits. “But some parts were good. I liked the ending. Took an American literature class last term, too.”

“I remember.”

Billy is quiet for a while. Tom nudges him.

“You remember any?”

“Poetry?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Tom waits a moment before settling his hand lower on Billy’s hip and saying, “Try me.”

“Let me think. I only remember pieces, you know. ‘ _My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun …_ ’ Ah, I don’t remember that one.”

He is quiet for a long moment, trailing the brush around the pan absentmindedly. Tom waits.

”’ _once. It does not_ —’ no, that’s not … ‘o _nce. what does it matter/when or who, i knew/of love.’”_

He stares into the water, speaking with more confidence. “’ _I fixed my body/under his and went/to sleep in love/all trace of me/was wiped away.’”_

Tom shuts his eyes and leans against him. “Love poems.”

“Some, yeah. That’s … God, what’s her name? Sanchez. Sonia Sanchez. There was that one and then Derek Walcott: ‘ _Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live_.’ I like that.”

Tom kisses the side of his neck, shifting slightly so he’s leaning against Billy’s back. Billy’s fingers are beginning to prune, but he keeps running the brush lightly over the surface, the soft metallic scraping filling in the silence between his words.

“I remember— There’s one I really liked from American Lit. Walt Whitman. I like him, Whitman. Made me think of you.”

“Yeah?” Tom noses along the collar of Billy’s shirt.

“Not the whole thing, but it goes … something and then: _’I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,/_ _All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate,_ _chaste, matured,’_  something, something, then it’s … ‘ _your body has become not yours/only nor left my body mine only—’”_

Tom slips a hand into the open neck of Billy’s shirt, pulling the collar down far enough to press his lips against pale skin.

 _“‘You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you /take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, /I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,/ I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, /I am to see to it that I do not lose you.’ ”_

Billy stands in silence for a moment, hands stilling. The only sound is the slow progress of Tom’s mouth up the side of his neck and the rustle of fabric as Tom’s right hand moves across his chest and down to his stomach. Tom is fully behind him, now, pressed tightly against his back. Billy blushes and looks down at the sink.

“That’s how I remember it, anyway.”

“I like it. It made you think of me?”

“Of course.”

Tom bites gently at the curve of his ear. “Give me another one,” he whispers and slides a finger under Billy’s belt.

“I— Okay.”

Tom gets his buckle open with a few small movements, breathing quietly into the back of his neck.

“ _Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths_ —Fuck!” He gasps as Tom’s hand slips underneath his cock to flick lightly at his balls.

“Keep going,” he mutters throatily into Billy’s ear. Billy swallows and starts again.

“ _Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths_ , um … oh God …  _blue and dim and dark … of night and light and the half-light.”_

Tom punctuates each beat with a soft tug, using his free hand to slip shirt buttons out of their holes.

“ _I—_  oh Jesus.  _I would spread the cloths under your feet… . I would … I_.”

Billy turns his head and manages just momentary contact with Tom’s mouth before he takes a shaky breath and continues.

“ _But I being poor have only my dreams./ I— I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly because you—_ Ah— _tread on my dreams._ ”

“Keep going,” Tom gasps, grinding up against his back.

“That’s all there is. I don’t—”

“Fuck. Just anything, keep talking.” Tom switches hands, moving his right around to his own fly.

“This is working for you? I didn’t think—”

“I didn’t either. Just keep talking.” 

“Okay. Ah-  _Tread soft_ — Can’t really think when you’re—”

“You want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare. Fuck.” He bites his lip and breathes in harshly as he feels Tom’s hand move against him.

“ _Here is no water but only rock_.” Tom shifts so that his loosened trousers fall a few inches, easing the twist of his wrist. “ _Rock and no water and the sandy road/The road winding above among the mountains_.” Billy spreads his hands on the edge of the counter, anchoring himself as he rocks. His eyes squeeze shut. “ _If there were water we could stop and drink._ ” Tom lets go of himself, slips a finger into his own mouth and sucks, whimpering. “ _Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think_ ,” Billy gasps. “Oh Christ. God, I missed you. Oh my God, I missed you.”

Tom bites down on the back of his neck and slides his wet finger into the crease of Billy’s behind. Billy arches and groans as Tom gently circles down, mouthing across his spine and teasing the sensitive skin. He picks up the rhythm of his hand on Billy’s cock, and Billy grits his teeth against the compounded sensation.

“Keep going,” Tom mutters, grinding up against him.

“I— What the fuck do I—?”

“Anything. Keep talking.”

Billy takes a shuddering breath, tenses his shoulders, and speaks. “ _He may suffer memory grown dim …_  Fuck …  _Nothing already then … Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor—_ ”

“That’s not even English,” Tom hisses, twisting his left hand brutally. Billy throws his head back and growls in response.

“Fuck you. Ah, fuck I’m close.” His voice rises up the back of his throat as Tom’s finger slips inside him, working softly back and forth. Tom’s breathing thickens and he grinds himself against the back of his own wrist, uneven and incomplete.

“More,” Tom whispers, pushing in further. “Give me more.”

“Tom,” Billy gasps. “Oh fuck— Tom, Tom, my—”

Tom moans against him, pressing his forehead into the back of Billy’s neck.

“More, more,” he chants, crooking his finger deeper into the warmth of the body in front of him, eyes shut so tight he begins to see stars.

“I—  _Yes … yes … yes I said yes I will yes._ Ah, Christ, ah,  _fuck_.” He jerks, banging up against the counter and spurting over Tom’s hand, a few drops landing on the edge of the sink. He takes a shaking breath and Tom gently withdraws his finger, desperate little noises slipping out of his mouth. Billy turns, trusting his weight to the counter behind him and slides to his knees. Tom snaps his eyes open and whines at the sight of his own cock slipping between Billy’s lips, Billy’s shirt hanging off one shoulder and jeans gaping open. In less than a minute Tom’s shuddering into stillness, one hand catching the overflow as it runs down Billy’s chin. He folds down onto Billy’s lap, all knees and elbows, and Billy settles his back against the cupboards.

“That was fantastic,” Tom mumbles, pressing them together chest-to-chest and nestling his cheek against Billy’s hair. Billy’s chuckles and secures his arms around Tom’s back, fingers idly shifting against his t-shirt.

“Never anyone else, you know,” Tom says.

“I know, baby. I know.”

“I missed you. Every second. But then,” he pulls back and runs his fingers through Billy’s hair, smiling to himself. “There was this airstrike on this shithole of a compound. And apparently there were like three full petrol tanks inside, so there was this massive fireball. Out of nowhere, you know? Could almost feel the heat on your face from eight hundred meters.” He grins and Billy chuckles in response.

“But all of a sudden, I just get this flash. Like, right in that massive explosion is exactly this color.” He takes a strand of Billy’s hair between his fingers and shakes his head. “Don’t even know where it came from; why I noticed it. It was just a split second. But then I started seeing bits of you everywhere. Somebody had freckles just there,” he runs a finger along Billy’s cheek. “Somebody else walked kind of like you. Fucking birds— Couldn’t see wings without—” he slides a hand across Billy’s shoulder. Billy tips his head to the side and considers him curiously.

Tom just looks at him for a moment in contented silence, then says, “Like some kind of beautiful ghost. Like you were haunting me. Everywhere I went.”

Billy leans up and kisses his bottom lip, humming gently. 

“Poetry,” he murmurs and runs his nose along the underside of Tom’s chin. 

“It’s not. It’s just truth, that’s all.”

“Beautiful truth. Same thing.”

Tom snorts inelegantly and settles against him, burying his nose in the unruly mess of copper hair. Billy shifts against the cupboard and holds him for a moment before groaning.

“If we stay here any longer I am not going to be able to get back up.”

“Old man,” Tom whines. Billy bites his jaw. He tightens his arms around Tom’s lower back and starts to rise, but fails to get his feet underneath him.

“Yeah, no. There’s no way I’m lifting you from here. Get the fuck up.” 

Tom laughs and unfolds to standing, pulling him up by the hands.

“Bed or couch?” Tom asks.

“Couch is closer.”

Tom saunters across to the living room and flops down onto the couch, trousers falling down his legs as he moves. Billy leans against the counter for a moment, watching him with a quiet smile. The he kicks off his jeans, leaves them on the kitchen floor, and bounds across the living room to pounce on Tom. Tom yelps and gets him around the neck, wrestling him onto his back.  

“How long do you think you need?” Tom asks.

“Don’t know.” Billy says, grinning wickedly. He hooks his feet around the backs of Tom’s calves and slips a hand up the back of his shirt.  ”Experiment.”

**Author's Note:**

> Works cited:  
> William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 130."  
> Sonia Sanchez, "Ballad."  
> Derek Walcott, "Fist."  
> Walt Whitman, "To A Stranger"  
> W. B. Yeats, "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven."  
> T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land."  
> James Joyce, "Ulysses."


End file.
